by Tracy Garbutt
It was 1972. I was hitting the bottle pretty hard in those days.
All I could do was drink. Nothing else mattered, I just had to have it.
It was an unquenchable desire.
If I thought about anything, I thought about drinking. It was all I could focus on. I just kept sucking it back. It was everything; my lifeblood. I kept hitting the bottle and hitting it hard.
It wasn’t pretty but I had no pride. I’d guzzle, glug, spill, drool. I’d burp. I’d puke. Sometimes all over myself, sometimes on other people. Sometimes I’d lose control of all my bodily functions. All of them.
Most of the time I couldn’t even get off the floor. I’d pass out. All interested and involved and then…asleep. I’d come to just as unexpectedly and unpredictably.
Then, I’d spout nonsensical gibberish as I clumsily groped and pawed for the bottle until I found it.
I’d hit it again. And again.
My moods would change abruptly; all over the place emotionally. Fun, annoying, quiet, petulant, loud, charming…everything.
I gained a lot of weight.
I ignored people. I put my own needs first, but friends and family remained staunchly supportive. Enabling. Still, nobody felt they could rely on me.
I was completely out of control.
It was 1972.
I was six months old.
I was hitting the bottle pretty hard in those days.